The Take(70)

As they walked to her motorcycle, he checked the schedule for the next TGV to Marseille. “Think we can make the nine sixteen?”

“We?”

“You want to miss out on all the fun?”

“I’m on duty at eight.”

“Call in sick.”

“Out of the question.”

“I thought you wanted to get him.”

“I wouldn’t have come this far if I didn’t. Marseille is another département. An entirely different jurisdiction.”

“A crime’s a crime no matter where it’s committed.”

Nikki gave him a tired look. “This isn’t bending the rules, it’s nuking them. I like my job. I’m not going to throw it away for you.”

“They can’t fire you if you bring in Coluzzi.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Riske. If you need some help from the police in Marseille, ask your friend, the commissaire. I’m sure he’ll be able to recommend someone.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to do what I should have done all along. I’m going to call in the homicide, tell the lieutenant everything I know about who killed Falconi, and pass along the information that Tino Coluzzi was responsible for the robbery. I’m sorry if that puts a crimp in your plan to retrieve this all-important letter.”

“I understand,” said Simon.

“No, you don’t, but that’s the way it is.” Nikki walked to her motorcycle and climbed on.

“You’re sure?”

“My shift started five minutes ago. I’m late. Bon voyage.”

Simon stepped back as Nikki fired up her bike and disappeared into morning traffic.





Chapter 38



Valentina was not at Orly Airport. Nor was she aboard one of her country’s aircraft en route to Marseille. Though she could not know it, Vassily Borodin, despite a budget of over ten billion dollars and a multitude of resources at his disposal, was unable to provide one of the SVR’s jets to transport her to Marseille. Chartering a plane meant paperwork, and paperwork required opening a case file, and a case file required providing the name of a case officer. As Valentina’s work for Borodin was a private matter, and she had not yet been officially reassigned to his complement of covert operatives, her activities were strictly off the record.

There was no case. Thus, there could be no jet.

If Valentina suspected she had embarked on a mission sub rosa or was undertaking a wildly dangerous lark, she put the notion out of her mind. She was aware that Borodin himself had booked her flight to Paris and that prior to her departure from Moscow he’d wired her ten thousand euros from his personal account. Neither fell under normal operating procedure. Borodin’s explanation was that she was undertaking an important mission on his behalf upon whose successful conclusion she would be returned to active service. Like all spies, she knew when to ask questions and when not to.

So it was that at 7:49 a.m. she stood at the ticket window in the Gare de Lyon, hoping to buy a seat on the next TGV, or Train à Grande Vitesse, the high-speed train, to Marseille.

“Good morning,” she began, smiling shyly. “I was wondering if a seat has become available on the 8:37 to Marseille.”

The clerk tapped at his computer. “Sold out.”

“Are you certain that there are no last-minute cancellations? It’s a family emergency.”

The clerk regarded her impassively. “Nothing is available, madame. I’m sorry.”

“My son,” she said. “He’s ill. I’m happy with any seat.”

Still the clerk did not double-check. “If you’d like, I will put your name on the waiting list. This is one of our busiest lines. There are already four people on the waiting list ahead of you.”

Valentina checked her watch. She thought of the man who was also looking for Coluzzi. Was he already on his way to Marseille? Over the clerk’s shoulder, she could see passengers filing through the checkpoint to board the train. Normally, she would simply board and purchase a ticket once the train had left the station. However, new security measures made it impossible to board a TGV without a ticket. She could only be thankful there was no baggage screening.

“When is the next train?” she asked.

“Nine sixteen.”

“One ticket.”

“First or second class?”





Chapter 39



Simon was out of his league. At some point in the last twelve hours his profession had changed. He was no longer a consultant for a corporation worried about industrial espionage or an investigator for a bank concerned about a larcenous trader or a recovery specialist for an insurance company tasked with retrieving a stolen watch. None of those involved having a gun aimed squarely at your chest or discovering the body of a man who’d been tortured to death with a sharp instrument. He had moved on to shakier ground. Soon, the choice of whether or not violence was required to complete his assignment might no longer be his. The list of professions that required a man to maim or kill for his country was short. He was neither a soldier nor a spy. He most certainly wasn’t an assassin. To his mind, that left one thing. He was a secret agent.

He did not like the sound of it.

Entering his hotel room, he threw off his jacket and, with haste, gathered his clothes and packed his bags. In a stroke of good fortune, he’d nabbed the last seat on the 9:16 to Marseille. Once finished packing, he called Neill.